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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29299614">Tiger Black</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mediumdinosaur/pseuds/Mediumdinosaur'>Mediumdinosaur</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fairy Tales of Narin [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Midnight Poppy Land (Webcomic)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Fairy tale retelling, Mafia Drama, Snow White - Freeform, Vincent sucks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:14:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,522</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29299614</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mediumdinosaur/pseuds/Mediumdinosaur</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mirror, mirror: whose mafia clan is the most powerful of all? Vincent doesn't like the answers he keeps getting, so he decides to do something about it. </p><p>An MPL retelling of snow white. Glass coffin not included.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tora/Poppy Wilkes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fairy Tales of Narin [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2115246</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>My favorite MPL</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Huntsman</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Girlmundy/gifts">Girlmundy</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>1. Girlmundy suggested an awesome idea for a snow white inspired fic! This ended up being a kinda different direction (sorry) but it grew out of me thinking about the suggestion and being inspired by it, so thank you!! &lt;3 I hope the changes aren't too disappointing haha</p><p>2. I knew this was going to be a more-than-one chapter fic so I've been putting off starting it due to Aftermath, but I've been itching to write it for a few weeks now, so... -throws caution to the wind- since it follows a fairytale it shouldn't get turned into something super long by accident sooo</p><p>3. Hope y'all like, let me know what you think!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dear reader, this is not the story of Snow White. It is the story of Tora Kuro—in English, “Tiger Black.”</p><p>But perhaps you will find many similarities between the two tales.</p><p>*</p><p>The classic <em>Snow White</em>, for instance, begins with a Queen who desired a child. She could think of nothing else. One winter day, sitting at the window and sewing, she pricked her finger. The queen watched a drop of blood fall to the pure white snow below. She sighed, and wished for a child with snow-white skin and blood-red lips.</p><p>Tora’s mother didn't want a child, but she was already pregnant when she made her wish.</p><p>She was the descendant of ancient Kings and Queens, but her life was far from royal. It was a bitter, painful thing, defined by struggle and tragedy.</p><p>One day she visited the Narin Zoo. She stood in front of the tiger enclosure, running her bruised hand over her swollen belly and staring at the unhappy creature in its cage. Even confined by bars, the beast was magnificent, and powerful.</p><p>“I hope he’s the same,” she whispered to herself. “Strong enough to get through anything.” She imagined a child with eyes as gold as a tiger’s, and hair as black as the tiger’s stripes.</p><p>Four months later, screaming at the top of his lungs, Tora came into the world.</p><p>Soon after, his mother left it. And then Tora found his way into the Narin foster system.</p><p>He was adopted not by a cruel step-mother, but by a different type of royalty altogether: Vincent Balthuman, undisputed king of the city’s underworld.</p><p>*</p><p>Vincent Balthuman was a little old school.</p><p>Yes, you could get the news digitally these days. Notifications for relevant headlines. Whatever you wanted. But he <em>liked</em> the smell of newspaper, and the feel of it in his hands. He liked how big it was unfolded; how he felt skimming those large pages with a cigar in his mouth, looking just like his father had looked. He liked it just as he <em>liked </em>the smell of fresh-polished furniture, the taste of scotch instead of bourbon, and the look of classic cars.</p><p>A stack of newspaper clippings sat in his desk’s righthand drawer.</p><p>
  <em>Balthuman “Black Swan” Wins Michelin Star</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thirty Under Thirty: Q.B. Noyouko Named Top of “Writers to Watch” List</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mystery Sniper Kills Louis Olzii, Notorious Crime Boss</em>
</p><p>But lately, he didn’t like the headlines. He hadn’t added anything to his collection in months.</p><p>And still the <em>Narin Mirror </em>kept arriving at his office every day, in its fucking plastic bag, the smell of fresh-printed ink that he’d always loved starting to drive him mad. Today he yanked it out and flipped right to the entertainment section, bracing himself for the sick feeling in his gut that never seemed to go away.</p><p>And there it was.</p><p>
  <em>Pied Piper Wanted: Rats on the Rise</em>
</p><p>And, two pages down:</p><p>
  <em>Long-Time Staple of Narin Fine-Dining, Chevy’s, to Close Amid Complaints of Cockroaches, Food Poisoning</em>
</p><p>He didn’t cuss. He didn’t make a single sound. But with his lips pressed so tight together his mouth was like a knife, he crumpled the <em>Mirror</em> and shoved it violently into his trashcan. Vincent’s fingers tapped on the leather armrests of his chair. He frowned to himself, thinking hard.</p><p>Nine Daggers was behind it, he <em>knew </em>that. But who was behind <em>them</em>?</p><p>The thought that he could be beaten by a bunch of upstart nobodies was inconceivable, unthinkable. Time after time the Nine Daggers clan was making him look like a damned idiot. They <em>had</em> to have someone on the inside. There <em>had </em>to be a simple answer: some single variable that he could remove, to make his old equation run as smoothly as it used to.</p><p>*</p><p>Tora’s instructions were unusual.</p><p>
  <em>Wear a suit. Come in clean. Keep your earpiece on. There are temporary metal detectors set up, for the annual conference at the Qian Li Royal Hotel, so the gun will be waiting for you in the room, smuggled in early. Touch nothing else. Clean off the fingerprints the moment you’re done and throw the room key down the trash shoot. Rejoin the conference before the police arrive. </em>
</p><p>Getting inside went just as he expected it to. He locked the door to the small room behind him and pulled the bulky briefcase out from beneath the bed, where he'd been told it would be. Assembled the gun inside, a barrett M82, in a minute flat. Wiped down everything but the rifle so he’d be ready to go as soon as it was over.</p><p>Cracked the window open and settled down to wait beside it.</p><p>“Ready,” Tora said under his breath.</p><p>“That was fast.” Martin’s voice crackled in his ear.</p><p>“What, surprised I beat your old ass?” Tora said. He glanced across the street to one of the many anonymously dark windows of the building across the way, where he knew Martin was completing the exact same tasks.</p><p>“Language,” Martin said. “Precision over speed, punk.”</p><p>“How ‘bout both,” Tora muttered.</p><p>“There’s a reason they call me the huntsman,” Martin retorted.</p><p>Tora snorted but said nothing. As far as he was concerned, it was a stupid fucking street name. He had no doubt he could outshoot Martin <em>any</em> day. And unlike that old fuck, he didn’t need glasses.</p><p>Idly, he stared at the courtyard below, waiting and trying to keep his mind separate from the reality of death.</p><p>“Them?” Tora said suddenly, looking at the top of a dozen people's heads.</p><p>“No,” Martin said. “Smithy will let me know when they arrive.”</p><p>There was a long pause.</p><p>“Fuck,” Martin muttered under his breath. The word came out as a crackle of static. Tora winced; he really needed to buy a nicer earpiece.</p><p>“You okay?” Tora asked, hoping he wouldn’t need to save Martin’s ass from some amateur mistake. He preferred being on jobs like this himself, but there were so many targets that Vincent had deemed it a two-person job.</p><p>Another long pause. He supposed that was better than screaming, or sirens, coming through the earpiece.</p><p>“You know I met you, the day the big boss picked you up,” Martin said, his tone flat.</p><p>Was this another fucking story about how Tora was just a kid who didn’t know what he was doing? The tiger rolled his eyes and said nothing. After another pause, Martin kept going.</p><p>“Never saw someone so goddamned stubborn. You took so long to break.”</p><p>Tora shifted uncomfortably. He still said nothing.</p><p>“I can’t do this,” Martin said.</p><p>“…do what?” Tora said. “You need help putting the barrett together?”</p><p>“Shut up,” Martin said. “I have to tell you something, and I need you to listen to the whole thing. Can you do that?”</p><p>Tora blinked and said nothing. Martin took it for affirmation.</p><p>“Vincent wants you dead,” Martin said. “Your gun’s broken; it won’t fire. The targets aren't coming--<em>you're</em> the target. No, don’t run—” Tora had jumped to his feet “—just wait, I’m not going to shoot. Hell, I knew you when you were just a kid. You’re a disrespectful son of a bitch, but you’re still family. But Vince is crazy. He won’t stop hunting you unless he thinks you’re dead.”</p><p>“Fuck you, asshole,” Tora snapped.</p><p>“Tora, wait,” Martin said, his voice frantic and fast. “Help me pull this off, please. Think about it. The only way you live is if Vincent thinks I killed you. Don’t make me do it.”</p><p>“So what the hell am I supposed to do?” Tora stepped out of sight of the window, just in case Martin changed his mind, and expertly began to clean his fingerprints from the gun.</p><p>“Leave your phone. And your stupid skull necklace.”</p><p>“Like fuck.”</p><p>“Do it. The phone has GPS spyware installed, and I’ll need to show him the necklace as proof. Leave them both behind, walk out that door, and leave the city. Never show your face again. Not even to Quincey. If anybody but me knows you’re alive, we’ll never be able to pull this off.”</p><p>“I can’t believe you were gonna fucking kill me,” Tora seethed.</p><p>“You better get over that,” Martin muttered. “Now get away from the window. I’m about to shoot.”</p><p>Slowly, Tora lifted his hands to the back of his neck and unfastened the clasp of the braided leather necklace.</p><p>The stupid thing was a gift from Quincey, over ten years past, as much an offering of truce as it was birthday present. One of the first moments that angry, spitfire Tora had started to think of his adoptive, spoiled brother as just that: a brother.</p><p>He didn’t care about much in the world. He had next to nothing.</p><p>So losing those few final shreds?</p><p><em>Nothing to it</em>, he thought, clenching his jaw and dropping the necklace onto the floor. The window beside him shattered; a bullet lodged into the wooden bedframe.</p><p>Silently, he walked towards the door and left the room.</p><p>*</p><p>So Tora Balthuman, birth name Tora Kuro, was dead.</p><p>The tall, golden-eyed, dark-haired man who pushed his way roughly through the hotel doors had no name, no identity, no ties to the world.</p><p>He didn’t even have any cash on him.</p><p>Bowing his head in the hopes that nobody would notice him, he headed towards an alley. He had to get away, but how? He had no hood to hide his face. No money to pay a cab. No phone to call for help or even look up directions. If he tried to steal something it just heightened the risk that Vincent would find out he wasn't dead.</p><p>But he knew one address not far from the hotel. Far enough that he couldn’t walk there in broad daylight, but close enough, and safe enough, that it was his best shot. He slipped into the alley and glanced over his shoulder. For the moment, the street behind him was empty.</p><p>“How far the mighty have fucking fallen,” he muttered under his breath as he vaulted into a shoulder-height dumpster.</p><p>It was going to be a long, uncomfortable wait for nightfall.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Memorial</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tora briskly made his way to the apartment building, walking out of the business district and to the border of Ares street. He kept out of the bright pools of light cast by the streetlights.</p><p>The apartment building was a brutalist concrete behemoth, built in the seventies and never remodeled. He climbed the exterior stairs to the seventh floor and rapped his knuckles on the heavy metal door.</p><p>Nobody answered. Tora waited, leaning his back against the wall and scanning the street below. Nobody had followed him. He didn’t think anybody had noticed.</p><p>He waited another minute and knocked again. No answer.</p><p>Maybe nobody was home.</p><p>“’Course they aren’t,” he growled. “Can’t catch a fucking break.”</p><p>The windows were small and set high in the concrete walls, their bottoms around Tora’s chest height. He tried both windows, thought for a moment, and sighed.</p><p>They’d just have to forgive him. He felt too damn exposed out here, and he didn’t have his lockpicks on him.</p><p>He took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around his fist, then punched the window. He twisted on the balls of his feet, throwing his whole body into the thrust of the movement.</p><p>The first punch didn’t do it. He wound up and punched the same spot again, and his fist slammed through the glass. His arm raked through the jagged opening, cutting ribbons into his flesh; the jacket only lessened the wounds slightly. Carefully he withdrew his arm and inspected the window. Tora took off his shoe and used it to smash through the rest of the glass. He dusted off the windowsill with his jacket, then finally vaulted up over it. He landed on his one still-shoed foot and hopped away from the pile of shattered glass on the ground.</p><p>A drop of blood rolled down his palm and dripped to the floor. His dress shirt sleeve looked like red tie-dye.</p><p>Tora stripped it off and dropped it on top of the glass, along with his suit jacket and both shoes. A brief inspection of the wounds told him they weren’t bad, but he sure as hell needed to wrap them up. He stalked barefoot through the apartment, hunting for a first-aid kit. He knew there would be one. A place like this saw a lot of injuries, and he knew for a fact one of the inhabitants had a little medical training.</p><p>The place was a damned mess. Dirty dishes in the sink, precariously balanced higher than the faucet. Sleeping bags on the floor, surrounded by food wrappers and crushed beer cans. A bong next to a ratty, stained couch.</p><p>The bathroom was too disgusting to describe, but he found a box with bandages and medical tape beneath the crusty sink. He inspected his arm for shards of glass, picked out one, and then bandaged the wounds. He turned on the faucet to rinse away the blood he’d spilt digging out the glass. The sink filled with pink water, blood swirling through it, and started to slowly, slowly, <em>slowly</em> drain.</p><p>Given the state of the place, he was almost surprised to find a broom leaning against the fridge. Moving carefully to not step on any of the shards, he cleaned up the mess of the window.</p><p>The trash can under the kitchen sink was too full to fit the glass and bloody clothes.</p><p>“For Christ’s sake,” he muttered. He knotted the bag and started a new one, shook his head, and began to toss the assorted trash from all around the apartment into the bin. Payback, he supposed, for the broken window.</p><p>Amazing to think that Nine Daggers had survived for so long without wealthy sponsors or Tora’s help. Just a few years ago they’d been such a small band they were barely a gang, just nine thugs without a boss who decided to strike out on their own.</p><p>Then they’d <em>gotten </em>a boss, and higher profile jobs, and attracted a little too much attention in the Ares street district. Apparently they <em>hadn’t</em> learned to clean up after themselves. He’d only been there once before, but it hadn’t been nearly so bad then.</p><p>The bag was full. He knotted it and set it next to the first one. The place was still empty, and his stomach was rumbling, so he opened the fridge.</p><p>And slammed it back shut. Holy fuck, mold. It looked like just inhaling next to the open door could be deadly. The whole damn thing needed to be thrown out.</p><p>And so much for being hungry.</p><p>“…not my fault,” he heard a voice whine from outside the front door, the speaker clear through the open window.</p><p>“Shut the hell up,” another man said. “Dopey-ass motherfucker. <em>All</em> you had to do was watch the back door.”</p><p>“Hey, at least we didn’t get caught,” a third voice came.</p><p>As silent as a cat, Tora padded down the hallway towards the door. The men outside kept arguing, apparently oblivious that one of their windows was missing entirely. He heard a key turn in the lock. Tora folded his arms and leaned against the wall, watching the door and waiting for them to realize somebody was in their home.</p><p>Goddamned idiots. It really was a miracle they were alive.</p><p>The door opened. The guys kept squabbling.</p><p>“Christ. Shoulda called it nine idiots,” he said. The group froze.</p><p>“Holy shit, <em>Tora</em>?” the speaker was Bash, short for ‘bash your fuckin’ skull in,’ a short guy whose undercut had grown out unevenly.</p><p>One of the quicker-witted idiots wrenched a gun from his pants, swinging it towards Tora. The tiger almost sighed as he lunged forward. Smoothly, moving too fast for any of them to follow, he wrapped his palm around the barrel and knocked the gun away from his chest. He twisted it out of the Nine Dagger’s grip and flipped the idiot onto his back. Tora pointed the gun at the idiot’s forehead.</p><p>“Done yet?” he asked.</p><p>“Please don’t shoot,” the guy whimpered.</p><p>“Don’t fuckin’ try me again,” Tora said coolly. He flipped on the safety and put the gun into his own waistband.</p><p>“What are you doing here?” Bash said, completely ignoring the guy on the ground.</p><p>“Need a place to lay low,” Tora grumbled. “Nobody can know I’m here.”</p><p>“How’d you get in?”</p><p>Tora nodded towards the window.</p><p>“Shit,” said Bash, as all the men turned to look at it. “Couldn’t just wait till we got home?”</p><p>“You all fucking owe me your lives,” Tora said. “You can pay for one damned window.”</p><p>Bash snorted and finally turned to the guy on the ground.</p><p>“Change your fucking pants, you smell like piss,” he observed. He turned back to Tora. “Welcome to fuckin’ Nine Daggers, or whatever’s still left of it.”</p><p>Tora frowned. He knew Goliath was gone, but there was another face missing.</p><p>“Where's the other guy? Mack or some shit. The doc.”</p><p>“Dead,” said Bash. “We’re down to seven.”</p><p>*</p><p>There was no body to bury. Quincey tried to keep the memorial service small and discrete, the way he knew Tora would want it.</p><p>He couldn’t quite help himself. He’d <em>meant</em> to get a few small photographs printed, but how could he keep things so modest for somebody who meant so much to him? So the photos got printed bigger, and the poster board got swapped out for real photo paper, and <em>that</em> meant he needed to frame it. And the framed photographs would look out of place on their own, so he thought flowers were in order. And you couldn’t have just a <em>few</em> flowers in a big empty room, it would look unbalanced and cheap. And the walls really were shockingly white, and would look much better with a few tall vases—the sort that were chest-height—and maybe some drapery, or garlands of flowers that matched the swathes of greenery and roses that went with the photographs… and you couldn’t have paper plates for the food, or plastic cups.</p><p>And while <em>small and discrete</em> was one thing, cheap was another. It wasn’t vanity, but love, that drove Quincey’s spending spree. How could he skimp on anything, saying goodbye to the person who meant more to him than anybody else in the world?</p><p>What he <em>did</em> keep small was the attendance.</p><p>He didn’t want to be surrounded by swarms of thugs, people who barely knew Tora and were just there for food and alcohol. People who only knew Tora by deadly reputation. Who had never seen him smile, or shared a quiet moment with him.</p><p>Gyu, Damien, Brian. Alice, Fred, and Fran. Poppy. A half-dozen other clan guys. Cordy, though Quincey had to admit that was more for his own comfort. Even Lane, which was a little weird, but not really.</p><p>He invited his father.</p><p>His father did not come.</p><p>*</p><p>The room slowly emptied, until only three of them remained. Quincey, Gyu, and Poppy.</p><p>“Quincey?” Poppy asked, her voice tentative and trembling.</p><p>“Hm?” he smiled weakly down at her. Despite trying his best to prepare, to really show up for Tora the last time he’d be able to, his blonde hair was mussed and his black dress shirt wrinkled.</p><p>“Here,” she said. “Tora gave this to me. I thought… I thought maybe you should have it.”</p><p>She offered him the ring. It wasn’t that she was happy to give it away. Her heart ached bitterly at the thought.</p><p>But Quincey had mentioned, talking earlier about Tora to the room, how few material possessions he’d left behind. </p><p>And she knew, from losing her father, how much such mementos could mean. As much as Tora’s loss felt like a gaping hole in her chest, she had only known him a short while. Quincey had been with him for years. She felt she owed it to him to at least offer the ring.</p><p>Besides. Even more than the ring, she treasured the note that had come with it.</p><p>“He gave this to you?” Quincey said, a note of wonder in his breaking voice. He slowly picked the ring up from her warm palm, feeling its weight in his fingers.</p><p>He’d had no idea. Of course, he <em>knew</em> Tora liked Poppy, and he <em>knew</em> how rare that was in the tiger’s life. But he’d had no clue just how deeply Tora cared.</p><p>Poppy nodded. “Birthday gift,” she whispered.</p><p>“D’you know what this is?” His blue eyes tore away from the ring to meet her tired gaze.</p><p>“He said it was a… a good luck charm.” She drew in a ragged breath. “I guess he… I guess he shouldn’t have given it away.”</p><p>Quincey sighed and smiled painfully, closing his eyes. He wrapped Poppy’s hands around the ring again, shaking his head.</p><p>“It was more than that,” he said. “If he gave <em>that </em>to you, he really wanted you to have it. So please, keep it. And don't give it away. It belonged to Joe.”</p><p>She kept her hand out a moment longer, her fingers wrapped tightly around the ring. Her lips parted, and he waited for her to speak. But then she closed her mouth and nodded. He watched her eyes welling again with tears.</p><p>“Joe?” she said at last.</p><p>“I’ll tell you the story someday,” Quincey added. “But I don’t think I can talk about Tora any more right now. I hope you understand.”</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>“Thank you,” Poppy said. “I… I should go.” She slid the ring over her thumb, where it was still loose but would not be lost.</p><p>Quincey nodded. They embraced briefly. She wiped her eyes and wandered towards the door, looking for all purposes not like a woman in a building with a clear exit, but like a ghost lost in the wilderness.</p><p>He watched her go, feeling for the hundredth time that day the weight of Tora’s absence.</p><p>Then Gyu's elbow jabbed lightly into Quincy's side. Quincey turned to him. Gyu pulled a pack of Tora’s cigarettes out of his pocket.</p><p>“Wanna go to the roof?” Gyu offered.</p><p>He nodded.</p><p>It was the only fitting send off. Tora hated drinking, hated drugs apart from nicotine. And you couldn’t have a funeral without vices.</p><p>Both men sat on the edge of the roof, their eyes red and ringed with lack of sleep.</p><p>“Wanna do the honors?” Gyu offered Quincey Tora’s lighter.</p><p>Quincey lit his cigarette. He held it up to Gyu, who lit his off it, their faces scant inches apart. Cigarette kiss. They both sat back and stared out over the city.</p><p>“Disgusting habit,” Quincey said. "I always thought <em>that</em> would get him. He was so indestructible." He glanced at Gyu, then away, pretending he hadn’t seen Gyu’s tears.</p><p>Quincey’s phone rang. <em>Dad.</em></p><p>“You gonna get that?” Gyu asked.</p><p>“Nah.” Quincey turned his phone off and dragged on the cigarette. “He should’ve been here.”</p><p>*</p><p>One of the Nine Daggers idiots bought a new window, but Tora was the one who installed it. Through the power of glaring he managed to make them pick their shit up off the floor and do a few loads of laundry. He took a shower, keeping his bandaged arm out of the water, and bellowed a “the fuck is <em>wrong</em> with you assholes” after picking up not one, not two, but three empty shampoo bottles in a row. He threw each one violently out of the shower, the empty plastic tubs smacking against the shut door before clattering pathetically to the grimy tile floor. </p><p>A week later, he deemed it time to go.</p><p>“Bash,” Tora said. He was wearing borrowed basketball shorts; thank fucking god one of the idiots wore his pants baggy and too large. The borrowed hoodie was <em>not</em> so lucky; its too-short sleeves were pushed up to his elbows and its constricting chest made him look like a bodybuilder desperate to show of his abs. He couldn’t even lift his arms without revealing an inch of skin.</p><p>Bash was on the couch, holding the bong in one hand. He lifted a finger to Tora. A long count; then smoke billowed out from between his lips.</p><p>“You look like a fuckin’ teenager who just got a growth spurt,” Bash said with a lazy smile.</p><p>“Spot me twenty for the train and I’ll get the fuck out of here,” Tora said.</p><p>“Fuck—wait.” Bash put the bong onto the ground and leaned forward. “Don’t. I’ve been thinking. We could use you.”</p><p>“I’m not going on jobs,” Tora said. “Not in Narin city, anyways. I’m supposed to be dead.”</p><p>“Details,” Bash said. “You know more shit than any of us. Balthuman <em>still</em> wants us dead. Our big boss is fuckin’ useless. We’re all gonna end up in jail or worse at the rate shit is going. And we’ve all got records, crime’s all we can do.”</p><p>“And that’s my problem <em>how</em>?”</p><p>“Don’t you wanna stick it to that old man?”</p><p>Tora shrugged.</p><p>“Nah. Retirement doesn’t sound bad.”</p><p>“Please, c’mon. You’re a fucking <em>legend</em>, man. Help us out. We’ll give you ten percent of any haul, and you don’t even have to come with us. Just tell us how to pull it off. Or you wanna retire flat broke?”</p><p>Tora sighed and crossed his arms. It didn’t sound like that good of a deal.</p><p>Neither did fading into obscurity in the middle of bum-fuck-nowhere without a penny to his name, terrified to show his face.</p><p>“Thirty percent,” he said.</p><p>“Twelve percent,” said Bash.</p><p>“Thirty percent,” Tora repeated.</p><p>“Twenty?” Bash begged.</p><p>“Fine. But you gotta buy me some fuckin’ clothes. Today.” He lifted his arms to show his point. “I can’t go on like this.”</p><p>*</p><p>The next weeks made it obvious that killing Tora had fixed the problem.</p><p>The exterminators took care of the rats and cockroaches; the pests did not return. Nine Daggers was evidently disbanded, reduced to a spattering of small-time crimes. Balthuman was back on the rise.</p><p>A month passed.</p><p>Then the trouble started up again.</p><p>Vincent Balthuman eased the <em>Narin Mirror</em> out of its plastic sleeve, leaned back in his chair with a sigh, and spread the newspaper open. He’d gotten early reports already, of course; he was a hands-on boss. But seeing it in bold black print on a nationally circulated paper was different. Worse.</p><p>
  <em>Heist of the Century: How Three Banks in Three Nights Emptied Their Vaults</em>
</p><p>(Not a single one was Balthuman work)</p><p>
  <em>Return of the Rats: Plague of Rodents Infests Downtown Hotspots </em>
</p><p>(One guess who owned the establishments in question)</p><p>
  <em>Anonymous Tip Leads to Largest Cocaine Bust in Narin History</em>
</p><p>(And one guess who was importing the Cocaine)</p><p>For god’s sake. When you had a problem, you had to take care of it yourself, didn’t you?</p><p>He folded the newspaper neatly and set it on his desk just so, its bottom parallel with the edge. After a moment of thought, Vincent leaned forward and hit the intercom on his office phone.</p><p>“Sir?” Smithy said through the speaker.</p><p>“Smithy. Will you send Martin in here?”</p><p>“Yes, sir.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>Vincent released the intercom button. With a sigh, he opened his desk’s top drawer and stared dispassionately at the three pistols in their neat leather encasing. It was a shame to make a bloody mess in his office.</p><p>But then, he <em>was </em>getting tired of the antique silk Ghom rug. At least now he’d have an excuse to remodel.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chess</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Quinceton </em>was<em> a problem</em>, Vincent thought. At least as far as Tora went. The tiger had survived, and getting rid of him now was going to be a delicate matter.</p><p>He didn’t want his son to know. He’d always shielded Quinceton from the worst of Tora’s training. And <em>certainly</em> Quinceton would not like to know about this. So, an all-out clan assault wasn’t an option.</p><p>No. He’d have to be subtle, and creative, to remove his once-loyal dog from the face of the earth.</p><p>In <em>Snow White</em>, dear reader, the evil Queen tried three more times to kill Snow. She tricked her into trying on a corset, and laced it so tight that Snow couldn’t breathe. She drew a poisoned comb through her hair, immobilizing her until her companions removed the comb. She fed her a luscious, ripe, poisoned apple…</p><p>Corset, comb, apple? It will come as no surprise, reader, that Vincent’s techniques were not quite the same.</p><p>*</p><p>Heady with success, flush with cash.</p><p>The Nine Daggers apartment looked better than it had before. Still a shithole, but the fridge had food instead of mold. There was a vacuum. A new game console and a new TV, fancy speakers. Weights. More drugs and more alcohol, not that Tora partook of either.</p><p>“C’mon, dude,” said one of the remaining seven men. The guy knuckled one of his nostrils shut and snorted a line off the table, then sneezed. The rest of the powder skittered away from him and droplets of mucus splattered on the table.</p><p>“What the fuck,” Tora said.</p><p>“Just come out, and… and…” The guy sneezed again and rubbed his nose. “We’ll have a good fuckin’ time.”</p><p>Tora didn’t deign him with a response. His lower lip twitched. Weeks of tutelage and they were practically <em>all</em> still a disgrace. Tora leaned back on the couch and clicked the buttons on his controller, fiddling through the settings of a new game.</p><p>“Girls, and beer…” the sneezer continued.</p><p>“Oh, shut up,” Bash said, walking through the doorway. “Clean your shit up, let’s go.”</p><p>“Big bro’s coming with us,” the guy said.</p><p>“Seriously?” Bash asked, looking at Tora.</p><p>“Fuck no,” Tora replied.</p><p>The first man scrubbed at the table with his sleeve and shrugged.</p><p>“Been living in this joint for like two months now, and you haven’t got laid once. The fuck you don’t wanna come out for?” the guy asked.</p><p>“Yeah man, just come out, it’ll be fine,” one of the other guys said, hopping through the doorframe as he tried to slip on his sneakers.</p><p>“Fuck off,” Tora mumbled, eyes fixed on the screen. “Don’t tell me you fuckers need my help to drink beer, too? Ya that pathetic?”</p><p>A moment passed. They all got up and left.</p><p>“You think he doesn’t like girls?” The druggie muttered, trailing behind the group. Tora didn’t even bother to glance over his shoulder.</p><p>He heard the door close. He sat there for a moment longer, then turned off the TV.</p><p>Not like he gave a fuck, being called gay. Only time it ever made him pissed was when he heard it coming from Poppy’s lips, for a second, before he realized she definitely <em>didn’t </em>think that of him… not that there was anything wrong with it, obviously, but…</p><p>Well, she was the last thing he wanted to think about right now.</p><p> He’d been trying <em>not </em>to think about everything he’d lost. Not Bobby, not the Princess, not Ronzo, not old Alice.</p><p>Just eat, sleep, work out. Pace the apartment like a tiger in a cage, strategize, work out harder, shower. Jack off now and then. Sleep in late, and then later, and come a little unhinged, and…</p><p>Jesus, how much longer could he do this?</p><p> He got up off the couch. Groaned. He needed fresh air, to stretch his legs, to see something—anything—other than the same blank walls and dirty piles of laundry and drug-splattered coffee tables.</p><p>He’d been in prison before. This wasn’t as bad, but it was uncomfortably close.</p><p>He got up from the couch and stalked to the corner where he kept his things, few as they were. He’d made the mistake of trusting Bash to buy him clothes. The guy had weird style. Still, at least they fit right. Bright blue hoodie, obnoxiously yellow joggers. He tied back his hair, pulled up the hood, knotted it so it wouldn’t fall down.</p><p>Who, at a glance, would recognize him now? Late evening, the streets dusky. Tattoos covered, uncharacteristically colorful clothes. Nothing he could do about his face or his height. Good enough.</p><p>He grabbed the spare key and locked the apartment behind him. A run wouldn’t take him away for long. He’d keep his head down. He just needed to move, and taste fresh air, and see something different than the same apartment walls, or he was going to lose what little sanity he had left.</p><p>He trotted down the stairs and walked to the first street corner, then broke into a jog. A block later it lengthened to a run, feet pounding the pavement. Freedom burned in him, a budding thread of euphoria at being outside for the first time in weeks. How good it felt to move. </p><p>And how shitty, all at once.</p><p>He was ripped as ever, thanks to a set of weights in the apartment, but weeks without cardio and with an endless stream of cigarettes? Yeah, that was hell. He coughed and shook his head, then slowed back to a jog.  </p><p>It burned, but it burned so <em>good. </em>The feel of muscles in action, not churning through the same reps but doing what they had been made to do. The smell of the city: here a street vendor’s sizzling fryer, here a waft of gasoline, here a rancid hint of unwashed human stench, here a cloying, invisible cloud of perfume, clinging to a well-dressed woman clacking down the sidewalk in her too-high heels.</p><p>He kept his face angled down, but his golden eyes roamed hungrily across the concrete jungle.</p><p>Tigers weren’t meant to live in cages.</p><p>His side cramped; like he gave a fuck. Like pain mattered to a man like him. Like the stich in his abdomen was anything compared to the turmoil in his mind. His stride lengthened again. His breathing deepened. He tore through one block, then another, and another.</p><p>He wasn’t sure when the car started following him.</p><p>He only knew it was there, like a dark-windowed, red shadow rolling at his heels. Years of hard-honed instincts left him with no doubt.</p><p>The car was there for him. He didn’t know how Vincent found him, how Vincent knew.</p><p>But Tora <em>knew</em> it was for him, without a doubt. No, it wasn’t somebody slowly driving and trying to read the building numbers to find an address, or somebody slowly driving while answering a text. No.</p><p>It was here for him. He kept running, pretending not to have realized it, and in the span of seconds filtered through every move he could try.</p><p>There were other pedestrians on the street, so the car wouldn’t make its move yet. It was tailing him. Waiting until he was alone, or waiting until he led it to his hiding spot.</p><p>An alley coming up to the right. A brick office building beyond it, and a T intersection beyond that. A bank on the left side of the street, and a corner shop.</p><p>No gun. Why the <em>fuck</em> hadn’t he brought a gun?</p><p>He hated being hunted.</p><p>This was like chess. His opening move: to go for a run. Vincent’s: to chase.</p><p><em>Next move</em>: alley, office, bank? Whatever he did would determine the shape of the rest of the game. And the consequences were life or death.</p><p>His gritted his teeth, took another step, and made up his mind. <em>Fuck Vincent.</em> If Tora died, he wasn’t going to die with a bullet in the back, running for his life. That was the coward’s way out.</p><p>He jogged to the T intersection and ran in place for a moment, pretending to wait for the light to change. The car pulled up beside him. The driver’s door was not five feet from Tora.</p><p>The window rolled down an inch. </p><p>Tora threw himself at the car. His right hand closed around the handle as he threw his weight down, keeping out of line of the window. A gun had come up to the window as Tora threw himself at the car. But the gun fired a second too late, and missed him entirely; he was too low now.</p><p>Tora had the handle unlatched before the driver could lock it—stupid mistake, to not have it locked already.</p><p>The driver floored the gas as Tora wrenched the door open. Jesus Christ. One ankle twisted under him with a crunch as he jumped, getting the other foot on the inside lip and a hand grabbing the driver by the neck. The car spun rapidly around the intersection as the man grappled with Tora, trying to fight him off. But Tora was on him. With one punch he ruined the asshole’s face—let him take <em>that</em> back to Vincent. He grabbed the gun. Punched the guy in the crotch for good measure.</p><p>“I’ll fucking kill you next time I see ya,” Tora said.</p><p>Jumped out of the car. He turned on the safety and slid the gun into his pocket; if that guy came after him, Tora would make him <em>really</em> regret it. A middle-aged man, staring openly from the sidewalk, hurriedly looked away. Panic etched the man’s face.</p><p>“Fuck off,” Tora muttered, as much to the pedestrian as to himself. He took a step and cussed. Jesus, had he sprained his ankle? Or worse? Idiot move. Rookie move. He knew better.</p><p>But he couldn’t stay there, or limp home at a leisurely pace. At least the car was driving off, not following him.</p><p><em>I’ve worked through worse</em>, he told himself. <em>Worked through a broken jaw, didn’t I. Gun wound. Broken arm. </em></p><p>
  <em>So don’t be a weak-ass mother fucker. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Get the fuck home before the damn cops show up. The rest is just details.</em>
</p><p>*</p><p>Another week passed.</p><p>Quincey, sleepless and growing thin, handed Poppy another chapter of Mr. Lam’s book.</p><p>Poppy, numb and blank of expression, read over it with her hand in her pocket. Hidden from view, her fingers turned Tora’s ring over, and over, and over again.  </p><p>If the book was a romance, it was not a cheerful one. If she was an editor, she was not an attentive one.</p><p>She turned ten pages without processing a single word, blinked, and went back to the beginning. Forced herself to read it again. Let go of the ring, slowly, and picked up a red pen, and circled a word that needed changing.</p><p>So life went on. Haltingly.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Matters of Luck</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The game of chess kept unfolding slowly.</p><p>Tora foiled Vincent’s gunman and limped home, gritting his teeth through unimaginable pain with every step.</p><p>Vincent’s next move did not come for a number of days.</p><p>It may seem strange to apply the word <em>luck</em> to Tora’s situation. What could be lucky about hiding out in a shitty apartment for weeks, months on end, no contact with the outside world, no contact with the people you were trying <em>desperately</em> not to think about? What could be lucky about bandaging your own ankle with a sprain boot bought on the internet, and keeping it elevated, and popping painkillers, and hoping that if it was broken it did not heal the wrong way because you couldn’t see a doctor without risking your life?</p><p>What could be lucky about <em>that</em>?</p><p>Well, imagine.</p><p>Tora was lucky enough to be sitting beside the apartment window, foot propped up on another chair. His gaze flipped between the shooter game Bash had going on the TV, and the slow movements of pedestrians, like ants on the distant street seven floors below.</p><p>He was lucky enough to glance down as a flood of SWAT cars filled the street below him. At the officers throwing their car doors open. At the drug dogs and guns and uniforms swarming like hornets.</p><p>“Shit,” Tora said, then turned to Bash. “Cops.”</p><p>“What?” Bash squinted at the screen, adjusting his character’s scope with minute twitches of his finger.</p><p>“Drug bust,” Tora said, pushing himself off the chair and keeping weight off his injured ankle. “Get all the shit, <em>now</em>, unless you wanna go back to jail.”</p><p>Then a flurry of activity. Three minutes later saw Tora climbing out a window that faced the building’s courtyard rather than the street, hauling himself arm over arm with only one foot to keep his balance on the narrow concrete ledges.</p><p>He carried two backpacks with him: one full of drugs. The other full of stolen cash.</p><p>He threw both onto the roof of the next building over; since that building was a few floors shorter, they landed far away from him. Far enough for some measure of deniability, at least.</p><p>He’d be a suspect, sure as fuck, if the cops found him up there. But what could they prove?</p><p>Well. He’d worry about that hurdle if it came to it. With an injury and cops swarming below, he had only one move left.</p><p>Wait, and hope for the best. He lay down on his back and stared at the near-cloudless sky, then drew in a deep breath.</p><p>*</p><p>He almost lost it when the stairwell door burst open two hours later, but it was a nine-daggers guy, not a cop.</p><p>“Fuck,” Tora muttered under his breath.</p><p>“We’re good,” the guy said. “They turned the whole place upside down, but they didn’t find anything. Where’d you stash it?”</p><p>Tora pointed to the other building.</p><p>“Don’t fucking touch it,” Tora said. “If it’s still there in a few days, you can get it. Not till we know they aren’t comin’ back.”</p><p>“Aw, fuck, bro,” the guy complained, scratching his neck.</p><p>Tora shrugged and limped back home.</p><p>Three days later, and he was home alone when a knock came at the door. He blinked himself awake, senses heightening. Threat? Risk? He swung his legs off the couch and got up slowly, then made his way to the door. His ankle was starting to bear a little weight.</p><p>Tora looked out the peephole. Nobody there.</p><p>He pressed his ear against the door. Nothing.</p><p>Waited a minute. Nothing.</p><p>He grabbed a gun and slowly unlocked the door, then eased it open.</p><p>A bag of groceries sat in front of the door. He poked his head out and checked both ways; the landing was empty. He looked down at the bag.</p><p>A delivery address was stapled to it. He didn’t recognize the name, but it looked like a typo in the address had landed it in front of his door. Without knowing what unit it was meant for, he couldn’t play at being a good citizen.</p><p>Besides. On top of dry goods, bread, and plastic-bagged produce rested a little blue crate full of the biggest, juiciest strawberries he’d ever seen.</p><p>He sure as fuck wasn’t letting <em>those</em> go to waste. And it wasn’t <em>his</em> fault someone had screwed up the order.</p><p>He hefted the bag and carried it into the kitchen, pausing only to lock the door behind him.</p><p>*</p><p>It was early evening when the nine-daggers guys got home and discovered Tora, unresponsive on the kitchen floor, a half-eaten poisoned strawberry beside him. They tried CPR. One of them smacked him. No response, no breath, no heartbeat. To all appearances, he was dead.</p><p>There is little need, reader, to detail their reactions. To detail the panic, the disbelief. To detail the mix of sorrow and fear: they had lost another of their own, yes.</p><p>But also: how the <em>hell</em> were they supposed to get rid of the body?</p><p>Let us, for one moment, be thankful they did not resort to gruesome methods. Instead, they waited until nightfall, and carried him down to Bash’s car. Three Nine-Daggers men and one unconscious, presumed-dead Balthuman drove from the downtown apartment all the way to the river, a place where many bodies had been disposed of before.</p><p>And can you guess, dear reader, whose apartment building they pulled up in front of?</p><p>Yes. <em>Luck</em>. Even in our darkest moments, what an astounding role that little word can play.</p><p>*</p><p>A few months ago, Poppylan Wilkes had not been the sort of woman to take dangerous risks—not unless she was helping someone in need, that was.</p><p>But the Poppylan Wilkes of months ago no longer existed, not quite. She’d changed. Tora’s death had filled her with a strange emptiness and quiet sorrow, deepening a conviction that had first set in when she’d lost her father: you couldn’t have the answers for everything.</p><p>And you couldn’t predict anything.</p><p>And you couldn’t let fear hold you back from living your life. When the desire to sit by the river at night gripped her, she followed it, heedless of the danger.</p><p>So, although it was dark out and not entirely safe, she sat on a bench next to the river and watched the city lights shimmer on its dark current. She took a deep breath and tried to remind herself what peace felt like. Looked at the concrete city and wondered if she should give up on her career to move back to Moonbright, where you didn’t fall in love with gangsters only to find out they were dead; where life moved a little slower.</p><p>“Hurry,” she heard.</p><p>“He’s <em>heavy</em>,” a voice answered.</p><p>“Shit, just… come the <em>fuck on</em>,” a third voice said. Slowly she turned over her shoulder and watched as three men maneuvered a fourth out of a car.</p><p>Was that large man <em>dead</em>? This was one of those rare scenarios that called for curse words, in Poppy’s mind. <em>Holy shit</em>, she thought, terror gnawing away her suddenly abandoned ‘come what may’ attitude.</p><p>What was she supposed to? Run?</p><p>
  <em>Oh god. What if I run and they think I’m going to tell someone and then they kill me to keep me quiet?</em>
</p><p>Flight or fight?</p><p><em>Luck.</em> She chose neither, and instead stayed frozen on the bench like a deer in headlights, hoping unreasonably that if she did not move a muscle nobody would notice she was there.</p><p>They dragged the body closer into view.</p><p><em>Impossible</em>, Poppy thought. <em>That’s impossible. </em>It couldn’t be Tora’s dead body she was staring at, because Tora was long, long dead. <em>Impossible. It’s someone else. Someone else with koi and flower tattoos, and long hair, and a perfect face… and it’s impossible.</em></p><p>“Tora,” she whispered, as a new emotion flooded her, one that replaced her earlier fear. She’d never been the type to take dangerous risks—<em>unless someone else was in danger</em>.</p><p>“Tora,” she said again, louder, standing up and running over.</p><p>“<em>Tora,” </em>she yelled.</p><p>Fight or flight.</p><p><em>Luck</em>. The men didn’t shoot her, or hit her, or do anything to harm her. No. Desperate not to be caught with a body and recognizing that this small woman somehow knew the dangerous man who had been living with them, they chose <em>flight. </em>They yelped, and dove back into their car, and sped away.</p><p>So Tora lay alone on the grassy slope down to the riverbank, until Poppy’s sprint carried her at last to his side. She collapsed half-on top of him, a strangled sob leaving her mouth. Yes, it was him. Up close, there could be no denying it. She repeated his name again and grabbed his face. His body was still warm. She felt for a pulse.</p><p>No pulse. And no breath.</p><p>Well, that wasn’t quite true. He <em>had </em>a pulse, but it was so slow that her untrained fingers couldn’t locate it.</p><p>Think what you will of Vincent’s fumble, but poisons can be difficult to get right. In his defense, he’d expected Tora to eat the whole strawberry, not pause halfway through. <em>Atropa Belladonna.</em> You, dear reader, may have encountered this particular poison before: it is the chief contender among theories of <em>Romeo and Juliet</em>.</p><p>Tora wasn’t dead, no. He was only deep, deep asleep.</p><p>She bent over him and pressed her lips to his warm forehead. Another sob wracked out of her. How much worse did it hurt to lose someone twice? How much worse did it hurt to accept a loss, only to have it slam through you once again, shattering those fragments that have only just begun to heal?</p><p>Tears blinded her vision so thoroughly that when Tora's pinky finger curled slightly, and his chest expanded with a deeper breath, she did not notice.</p><p>She only kept crying, as the tiger beneath her slowly traveled back to the land of the living.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Awakening</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And that's a wrap. Thank you for everyone who read this, and I hope you enjoyed it!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sensation of a finger brushing her cheek wrest Poppy from her tears. She gulped and blinked down at Tora, whose open eyes gazed up at her.</p><p>“Tora?” she whispered raggedly.</p><p>“Poppy, what the fuck are ya doing here?”</p><p>He didn’t yet realize, you see, where he was. He’d passed out in the nine daggers kitchen and opened his eyes to Poppy’s tears.</p><p>Another sob choked out of Poppy. Trembling, she wiped the tears from her face. She drew in a gulp of air, fell over him, and kissed him full on the lips.</p><p>Tora’s arms crept around her waist, his weak, drugged muscles working hard to hold her.</p><p>“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “I must be dreaming.”</p><p>Poppy sat up, her hands on his chest and her mouth hovering over his. Their eyes met. For a long moment they stared straight into each other. Tears welled in Poppy’s eyes again. Tora squeezed his shut as her tears fell, and she hurriedly mopped them away again.</p><p>“I thought you were <em>dead</em>,” she said, her voice shaky and confused and accusing all at once.</p><p>He turned his head slightly to the side and stared past her, into the night sky and over to her apartment building. He turned back up to Poppylan.</p><p>“How the fuck did I get here?” he muttered, blinking up at her.</p><p>“Don’t ask <em>me</em>,” she said. “You were <em>dead</em>.”</p><p>Her hands inched down his chest, then to his arms. Up to his face; back down. She couldn’t keep her fingers off him. Couldn’t believe he was there, <em>right there</em>, in her arms. Warm, and breathing slowly. Chest hard as iron, olive skin smooth. She traced the tattoo on his neck in wonder, and then his lower lip, then his eyebrow. How was this possible? A dead man had just crawled out of her memory and came back to life under her hands.</p><p> Tora lay still and watched her.</p><p>“We need to get you inside,” she said at last, as reality broke through her wonder. “Can you get up?”</p><p>“Just leave me,” Tora said slowly. “Feel like crap.”</p><p>She sat up, one hand on his chest, and pulled out her phone.</p><p>“I’ll call Quincey,” she murmured. Poppy pulled up the number and hit call.</p><p>“<em>Don’t.</em>” His voice snapped, the quickest thing about him. Tora reached up and grabbed her wrist. He wasn’t holding her tight, but his grip was as hard as iron.</p><p>“We have to get you upstairs,” Poppy reasoned. “<em>I </em>can’t carry you, Tora.”</p><p>“Quincey can’t know,” Tora said. “<em>You’re</em> not s’posed to know.”</p><p>The phone was still ringing, but she couldn’t ignore Tora—not with that look in his eye. Poppy hung up and pressed her phone to her mouth for a moment. She stared at him.</p><p>“Tora,” she whispered. “I don’t expect to have all the answers. But you… you let us think you were <em>dead</em>. Do you have any idea…?”</p><p>He blinked up at her. Her voice broke, and she fought to continue.</p><p>“…<em>any </em>idea what that was like, for me? For Quincey? For your friend Gyu?”</p><p>He still said nothing.</p><p>“Did you even <em>care?</em>” Poppy finished.</p><p>“Course I care,” Tora muttered. “Thought about you <em>all </em>the time.”</p><p>She tried to stay strong, to stay angry. But she collapsed back over him. Lay with her head on his chest, as he wrapped his arms slowly back around her.</p><p>“Please don’t ask me to keep you secret,” Poppy said. “I don’t know what’s going on, Tora, but Quincey deserves to know.”</p><p>“You can tell him,” Tora said after a long moment. “If ya give me another kiss.”</p><p>*</p><p>Quincey didn’t normally take cabs. But he was in one within five minutes of calling Poppy back. His initial reaction was much the same as hers, minus the kiss on the lips. He collapsed over Tora, biting back tears that came nonetheless.</p><p>“Don’t get so fuckin’ emotional. I’m not dead,” Tora muttered, slowly propping himself up on his elbows.</p><p>“That’s the <em>point</em>,” Quincey wailed. “You… you just…”</p><p>But he dried his tears and helped lift Tora up. He would have carried Tora up the stairs, but Tora was <em>just</em> too conscious to allow it. Instead, Tora hopped up stair by stair with one arm around Poppy and the other arm around Quincey; Quincey held almost all his weight.</p><p>Into Poppy’s apartment. Into Poppy’s bed.</p><p>“Never thought I’d get into your bed like <em>this</em>,” Tora muttered under his breath, turning Poppy’s face bright red.</p><p>“Water?” Quincey asked softly, as Poppy pulled the blankets up around Tora and Tora tried to push her off.</p><p>“For the last time, I’m not a fuckin’ invalid—” Tora muttered, as Poppy pointed to the kitchen and told Quincey what cabinet held glasses.</p><p>She turned around to Tora kicking off the blankets.</p><p>“Stop,” Poppy said sharply. “You <em>really </em>don’t do sick well, do you?”</p><p>He glared at her.</p><p>“Quincey’s going to call the doctor, so just—”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Tora said.</p><p>“Tora, you…”</p><p>“<em>No,</em>” he repeated. “You can’t. I’m s’posed to be dead. Nobody can know I’m here.”</p><p>Poppy took a deep breath.</p><p>“Honey.” That was Quincey, standing in the doorway with a cup of water in his hand and tension etched on his forehead. “Unless you start talking, the doctor is non-negotiable.”</p><p>“Christ.” Tora slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed and bent his neck, testing his mobility slowly. “Just quit worrying for half a second, Princess.”</p><p>Quincey stalked forward and set the glass down a little too hard. He folded his arms across his chest and gave Tora his best withering glare.</p><p>“I knew you had the sense of a rock,” Quincey said, “but I thought you at least had the sense to trust me. So for the last time, Tora, where in the <em>hell</em> have you been?”</p><p>*</p><p>The story came out haltingly. Minute by minute Tora regained his strength and awareness.</p><p>By midnight, three hours after Poppy found him, he was about back to normal—hurt ankle aside.</p><p>But there was silence in the apartment. Tora stood in front of a curtained window, arms crossed, gazing out the inch-wide opening. Quincey sat on the edge of Poppy’s bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, thinking over everything he’d been told. Poppy finished setting out the food she’d made. She didn’t expect anyone to eat, not just then. Offering food had just seemed like the right thing to do, to break the tension and confusion heavy in the air.</p><p>She walked up behind Tora and put two fingers gently on his shoulder.</p><p>“You okay?” she whispered.</p><p>He turned over his shoulder, then took her hand silently.</p><p>“I can’t believe this,” Quincey breathed at last.</p><p>“I’m not fuckin’ lying to ya—”</p><p>“I didn’t say you were,” Quincey said, shoulders hunched up to his ears. “<em>That’s</em> not what I can’t… Honey, I…” Quincey exhaled raggedly. “I <em>knew</em> Dad wasn’t fair to you, but… murder?”</p><p>“Your old man is capable of pretty much anything,” Tora said bluntly.</p><p>“You should have <em>told </em>me…”</p><p>“It’s not like I didn’t want to,” Tora muttered. “I just…”</p><p>“God. I <em>know</em>,” Quincey said. The blonde stood up from the bed in one fluid motion, and crossed the room to Tora in three strides. He wrapped his arms around his brother and squeezed tight, as Poppy dropped Tora’s hand and stepped back to give them space.</p><p>“Alright already,” Tora muttered, rolling his eyes. But Poppy didn’t miss the hint of a smile on his lips as he met her eyes over Quincey’s shoulder. “Hey, ya got pics of my funeral? Kinda wanna see how bad you flipped out.”</p><p>“Don’t make me slap you,” came Quincey’s muffled reply.</p><p>*</p><p>Well, reader.</p><p>Do you know the ending of this tale? In Grimm’s Snow-White, the step-mother’s fate was gruesome.</p><p>They strapped her feet into iron shoes that glowed red-hot with heat. How could she escape that pain? She danced herself to death, leaping off the ground in desperate search for relief, each footfall landing in unspeakable pain. This happened at Snow-White’s wedding. Morbid entertainment.</p><p>Well.</p><p>You can rest assured that Vincent did not dance to death at Tora and Poppy’s wedding. He was long dead.</p><p>But I’m sorry to say, for those of you with tender stomachs, that it <em>was</em> a pair of shoes that killed him. You may have heard the term <em>cement shoes</em>. A gruesome death, but not one unheard of in the mob.</p><p>But we needn’t tell that story, except to say Vincent met his end and Poppy was spared the details.</p><p>So I will just leave you, dear reader, with the happy ending every fairytale deserves.</p><p>Because the truth is, dear reader, that even as difficult as their lives continued to be—despite every trial and tribulation that came their way…</p><p>Tiger Black—Tora Kuro—the distant descendent of Kings and Princes—was reunited with his flower. And yes, dear reader. Yes.</p><p>They <em>did </em>live happily ever after.</p>
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